I just want to be brutally honest here because I’ve only got one life here on earth and there’s no point in tiptoeing around the real stuff. I think we’re moving toward authenticity, for sure, but it’s still filtered. We’ll post a photo or a story of us wearing no makeup or of our messy living room or piles of laundry but it’s still a snapshot that we chose. At the end of the day, we chose that shot.
But there’s some shit that we just don’t choose, and it’s ugly as sin.
I’ve dealt with some really difficult issues on my blog, and my courage and vulnerability has only been met with grace and kindness. Which, you know, is soothing and comfortable. But that’s not what I want. I want to feel pain and discomfort and I want you to feel it too and I want us to be able to stand in it. Stand right inside of it together, feeling all the feels, hands to our hearts, our smile wrinkles borrowed for sorrow, our mouths casting shadows on each other.
There is a time and a place and a sacred space to share the really deep-rooted stuff, for sure, and a running blog is hardly that time and place and sacred space, unless I make it one. Church is anywhere we choose it to be. And that’s what I want. I want to make this one in case you need it. Even if you show up to church here in your mind, stretching and writhing and groping and crying. If I reach you, if you reach me, it’s church. It’s the time and place and a sacred space.
I’ll go first. Being closely connected to someone with bipolar disorder is the single most difficult thing I have ever had to deal with in my lifetime, and I have not had a sheltered life. Sometimes, okay, oftentimes, I wish that it was me with bipolar disorder. I do. Because it’s a card I could play for bad behaviour. I could drop a zillion bucks on new clothes and fancy meals and weekends away in luxurious hotels and know that my loved ones will clean up the mess I made when I check back into real life. I’ve been “manicky” before, for sure, but when I am, I’m riddled with anxiety about it and my conscience hangs over the good times like a crucifix on a rear view mirror.
But then I don’t want it. I don’t. It’s like when Callum wakes me up at 2am and I can’t go back to sleep because I get this weird fake middle of the night hunger that will only be satisfied by four breaded hot wings, a Caramilk bar and a pint of milk. I want it, I do. But I don’t want it. I don’t.
I don’t want advice. And if you ever tell me your story, I won’t give you advice either. I just want to stand beside you and sip our church coffees together.